Sometimes you tear open poppy buds and
look how blossoms form. After that, the poppies
will never bloom again.
Mornings you braid in silk ribbons and feed
pale-blue doves. Later you leaf through thick red
storybooks. And sway on swings. And roll reed
hoops — — —

And more — you sing.
But why do you sing? Evenings are full of hymns.
Look how furious fiery stars spin and earth flies
headlong!
How I, obedient animal, honor bright Astarte and
close whispering curtains.
And then walk on a warm carpet. Barefoot.

This evening two grinning lanterns will scream
by the gates. Carriages will roll without a sound,
brushing damp lilacs.
Girls, girls — shut the storybooks and blow out
juvenile candles! Choose earrings quickly. They
will tinkle like bells. Choose gloves reaching
the elbows.
This evening all your fathers’ and mothers’ sins
gather and ignite in your slanting eyes.
                         _________
Raining more and more.
Empty children’s swings crying.